The heavy rain seeped through the fabric of Sam’s shirt, the cold air biting at his skin as he sat on the side of the pavement outside of the motel. He can’t remember how long he had been outside, just that it was long enough that his body had gone numb from the chill and he was no longer focused on the chattering of his own teeth.

He kept his gaze trained downwards, watching the puddle ripple in front of him, distorting his reflection. It was quiet — almost eerily so, despite the late hour. Sam had no doubts that you and Dean were still inside, trying to catch up on some form of sleep before another day of long drives and fighting consumed you all once more.

Fighting. Sam doesn’t know why he does this anymore. He’s tired. More than that, he’s exhausted, the ache he feels sinking deep into his bones. At first, he’d hunted to try and get some sense of acknowledgment from his dad. Some inkling that maybe John did love him, that the man he called his father was proud of him. Then it was Dean, who was more of a father to him than John ever really was despite mirroring the man more than either son would care to admit.

Now? Sam feels like he’s lost. He’s going through the motions as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded, and maybe it is. Hunting is his life. It’s not the life he wanted, but it’s the life he has. Jess is long gone. He has no family, except Dean, who has so much anger and hate that it feels the only way he can survive is hunting things. Sam doesn’t know how to settle down anymore, doesn’t think he can.

He’s a monster. He knows that. What worth is his life if he can’t save people?

Tears fall, indiscernible from rainwater on his cheeks. Sometimes, Sam wishes one of these hunts would be his last. It’d be easier, then. For everyone. Dean spent his whole life looking after him, making sure he was okay. Sam doesn’t want his brother to worry anymore, to look at him like he’s always a moment away from snapping. Sam isn’t a bad person — he doesn’t want to be. Demon blood courses through him, and he hates it. He wishes he could scrub himself clean.

He hears the door, but he ignores it. He’s vaguely aware of the sound of a familiar voice — yours — but he can’t make out what you’re saying. It feels like something is trying to claw its way out of his throat, but no matter how much he tries to swallow it down, it never leaves.

“You should be sleeping.” Sam croaks out, eyes still focused downwards, watching as the vague shadow of your figure appears under the dim streetlights. He curses himself for how weak his voice sounds.

He told you that you should’ve stayed away when he’d first met you, but you were stubborn. God, were you stubborn. He wants to tell you he loves you, but he thinks he’s incapable of those feelings these days. Sam Winchester was cursed — the boy with the demon blood. Everything he touches is ruined. He can’t see you die. He wouldn’t survive it.

Sam had tried so hard not to wake you when he slipped out of the bed. You weren’t a hunter, you weren’t used to stealing hours of sleep whenever you were able to, or long days and even longer nights. You haven’t said anything, but Sam can see how weary you are. How hard this is for you. You should’ve lived a normal life, you never should have met Sam.

His guilt grows until his stomach twists painfully in knots, and he has to hunch over and squeeze his eyes shut to battle the sudden wave of nausea that hits him.

“Please, just go inside…”